


The Lion's Howl

by keerawa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hell, Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Podfic Available, Redemption, Season/Series 04, Trust, collection: spn_bitesized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-06
Updated: 2010-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's all fucked up when he comes back from Hell.  Sam thinks some kinky sex is the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion's Howl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EllieMurasaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieMurasaki/gifts).



> Podfic by Reena Jenkins available here: http://www.audiofic.jinjurly.com/lions-howl

_“Every wolf's and lion's howl / Raises from Hell a human soul.” – William Blake_

Tonight’s salt and burn was a breeze. Dean steps out of the shower and towels off, just a scrape down his side to show for one less vengeful spirit in the world. He wraps the towel around his waist, steps out into the motel room and freezes.

Sam’s turned off the overhead light. He’s lounging naked on his bed, the bedside lamp angled to cast warm light over his skin. ( _a canvas yearning for an artist to mark it_ )

Dean swallows. Since he got back from Hell, they’ve barely exchanged hand jobs. And in the two weeks since Dean’s come clean about just what he’d been up to in Hell, nothing at all. Which makes sense. Dean doesn’t even want to jerk off in the freaking shower anymore, knowing what he did. Knowing how much he liked it, what might pop into his head when he’s close. Sam’s got good reason to keep his distance.

“Hey Dean,” Sam says, voice low and teasing. “Like what you see?”

Yeah, of course he likes what he sees. Sam’s turned him on since the kid was fifteen, big hands and sharp hip-bones. And once upon a time Dean would’ve jumped at the offer, sucked his brother off, fucked him into next week. Now he’s all, all screwed up, with hands that don’t remember how to be gentle. But he still … he still wants Sam. ( _proud, beautiful, just waiting to be broken_ )

Dean sits down on the bed, towel lost somehow between the bathroom and here. That’s when he notices that Sam’s got his left hand cuffed to the headboard. The hairs on his arms stand up, and Dean shifts back uncomfortably. “Uh, Sam? What’s with the cuffs?”

“Thought we might try something,” Sam answers smoothly. “Something fun.” Sam slides his right hand under the pillow, comes out with Dean’s Bowie knife and flips it around, offering the handle to him.

Dean automatically grips it, and then looks down at Sam again, naked and cuffed to the bed. Sammy wants him to use the knife for sex? Like some kind of toy? Like Dad hadn’t taught him five ways to kill a man quick with a knife; like Alastair hadn’t shown him a hundred ways to do it slow. ( _something fun_ )

Dean ignores the hot lurch of want in his belly and puts the knife down on the bedside table, shaking his head. “No way. Where’s the key to the cuffs?”

Sam shrugs. “I hid it.”

The little bitch has this crazy gift for hiding things in a motel room. It once took Dad three days to find the keys to the Impala when Sammy had a bad feeling about a hunt.

“Where?” Dean demands.

“I forget. But, hey, you know what’s really good for my memory? Oooorgasms,” Sam sing-songs.

“Fine, I’ll use a paperclip.” Dean heads for the pile of his clothes.

“Dean,” Sam says urgently. There’s a catch in his voice like he’s hurt, ( _that's good, more of that_ ) and Dean can’t help but respond.

“Look, I’ll get you off,” Dean tells him. “But the knife –”

“Gimme a hand with this?” Sam interrupts. He’s fiddling with something attached to the headboard, trying to close another handcuff around his right wrist.

“Seriously?” Dean asks, because there’s stupid, and then there’s crazy, and then there’s _this_.

“Yeah. I trust you, Dean,” Sam says, eyes dark and serious. “Wanna show you how much.”

And that’s completely fucked up, but Dean finds himself leaning over the bed to help. As the cuff snicks into place around Sam’s wrist something in Dean shifts, loosens. Dean traces a fingertip down the sensitive skin of Sam’s inner arm, following the prominent blue vein, and Sam lets out a long, shaky breath.

Dean sits back. They’ve never played around with bondage before, too worried about being incapacitated if something went wrong. But the sight of Sam restrained on the bed, spread out and helpless, has Dean hard and ready to go. _Want-take-mine._ Looks like it’s working for Sam, too. His breathing’s already gone funny, dick rising to the occasion.

And this … this is fine. The motel with its cheerful fern wallpaper and off-white sheets is nothing like Hell. Nothing like the _screams-sulfur-blood_ that Dean craves. He kneels between his brother’s legs and reaches for Sam’s dick.

“Knife,” Sam whispers. He never was that good at stringing words together once he got turned on.

“Sammy, you don’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, I do,” Sam disagrees, stubborn tilt to his head.

“World’s pushiest freaking bottom,” Dean mutters, picking up his Bowie knife. Feels so good when the handle slides home into his palm.

Sam’s eyes follow the knife, and Dean can’t resist a little flourish in the air. Dean moves fast and presses the flat of the blade against the big muscle in Sam’s shoulder, watches him flinch. He’d always loved this part, the shared anticipation of what’s to come. Sam hisses a little, but doesn’t say anything, so Dean leans in for a kiss as the metal of the blade warms up to body temperature.

Sam’s lips open under his. Dean licks into Sam’s mouth, lets his tongue brush against the roof of Sam’s mouth. Sam gasps and arches up suddenly. Dean pulls the knife away but Sam’s skin has already been parted by the blade. A few drops of blood bead on the cut. Dean shudders, staring at it. And ... nothing happens. He doesn’t lose control.

Dean’s other hand slams down on Sam’s hip with punishing force. “Don’t move,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking move, Sammy.”

Sam’s dick twitches and he rasps, “’Kay. Won’t.”

Dean rests the tip of his knife in the hollow of Sam’s throat, daring the monster in him to come out and play. His heart pounds. So does Sam’s. Dean can see his jugular pulse with the force of it. Dean knows how little pressure it would take to slide that blade home. Knows what it would feel like, how Sam would choke and spasm, the exact pattern of the blood spray. A part of him wants to try it; wonders what noises Sam would make, how much damage he could inflict before the light went out of his brother’s eyes. But he doesn’t do it. He doesn’t.

Dean’s hands are perfectly steady as he caresses the knife down Sam’s sternum, leaving a barely visible white scratch to mark its passage. Down the medial line of Sam’s perfect six-pack. He put on more muscle while Dean was in Hell. This is a man’s body now, not a boy’s. That much muscle would take some force to push through, especially if Sam was tensed against the pain. But Sam isn’t.

A quiet, husky, “Oh, oh fuck,” escapes from Sam’s mouth while his body stays perfectly still and relaxed under Dean’s blade. The knife reaches Sam’s cock, straining up to meet him. Dean pushes it down with the flat of the blade and Sam moans like a porn star.

“You get all kinky with that demon bitch while I was gone, little brother?” Dean asks. He really wants to know, because Sam wasn’t into this shit before. He never thought Sam would get so fucked up with him gone. “You getting off on the thought of me hurting you?”

He looks up at his brother’s face and Sam, he’s _smiling_ now, a happy little smile that has no place here, in this bed, with this knife a few ounces of pressure from slicing him open. “No,” Sam answers, meeting his eyes. “I’m getting off on knowing you won’t.”

Dean doesn’t deserve that kind of trust, and he knows it. But he needs it like fucking oxygen. He can’t let Sammy down. So he rests the knife down on the table and swipes his fingers through the blood trickling from the cut on Sam’s shoulder. He’s been letting Sam stitch up his own wounds since he got back; didn’t think he could trust himself to do it.

Now, _now_ his hands are trembling as he brings the bloody fingertips to his mouth and lets his tongue lap over them to taste the salty-copper tang of human blood. Sam’s blood tastes like his own, almost comforting in its familiarity. It brings back more memories of Hell.

“Dean, please, fuck, your mouth,” Sam is begging, his hips hitching up, desperate for some friction. They all begged in Hell, screaming and sobbing and whimpering for him to stop, for him to end it. So many ways he could make Sam beg, cuffed and helpless.

Dean finds a smile for his brother. “Yeah, I got you.” He wraps the hand that’s itching for the knife around the base of his brother’s cock and uses his mouth to make Sammy beg some more.


End file.
